Hairy Conniption Fits
by quietbang
Summary: Original Title: Hairy Conniption Fits  And Other Hazards of Fatherhood     The one where they're all kittens. Yeah, I don't even know.
1. Chapter 1

Raven was the first.

Charles had _known_ about strays, of course. Cook was always leaving perfectly good scraps on the windowsill, and had admonished him quite harshly for trying to eat them (in his defence, he was still quite a young cat).  
>"Leave some for the poor dearies that don't got none, you spoilt thing," she would say fondly. "Honestly, the way the missus feeds you- why, I never did see the like."<p>

So when he was woken up abruptly by the sounds of kibble in his dish- at 4 pm, a _perfectly indecent _hour- he had expected- well, he wasn't sure what he expected. A tomcat, perhaps, grizzled and bony and foaming at the mouth.

What he got, however, was a tiny kitten- she was at _least_ four months younger than Charles, and he was only 6 months himself- trembling with fear and cold even as she struggled to choke down kibble far too hard for her tiny teeth to chew.

She had trembled, and attempted a hiss when she saw him, but she was young, and tired, her smokey-blue points hinting that she had Siamese in her somewhere, and would doubtless be quite beautiful when she got cleaned up.

_It's okay,_ Charles said, purring slightly. _You can have it. Take as much as you want- you don't have to steal._

Charles wasn't stupid. He _knew_ Mrs. Marko (neé Xavier) wouldn't approve of the new kitten, especially not one so young, so untrained, and so clearly not a pure breed.

_What is your name, little one?_

She had paused, looking confused. _I-I don't have one. The humans, they- they tried to drown me._

_What would you like me to call you?_

_Raven, _she said finally. _Call me Raven._

_Well, Raven,_ he said kindly. _You're going to have to learn how to hide._

Charles was never quite sure how his particular reputation came about. Especially because when she was very young, he had forbidden Raven to go out- it was _dangerous_ for a child of her size to be out alone, and Charles Francis Snickerdoodle Coddington Xavier III had never set a paw outside in his life and he'd be damned if he started now.

She swore that she abided by that _particular_ rule, but that didn't make any sense- because how then did all the others _know_?  
>It had become a near weekly occurrence- Charles would wake up at half past six, roll out of his basket, and prowl carefully around the perimetre of the mansion, and find a kitten suffering from varying degrees of injury, disease, or malnutrition.<p>

Every. Single. Week.

And, look, Charles is a kindhearted cat, not the kind of cat who could ever turn his tail on a kitten in need- but it was getting ridiculous. He scarcely had time to train them, anymore; there were simply too many, which meant that they were more destructive than ever- something that only increased the difficulty and necessity of hiding them all.

_Especially_ now that Raven had gotten the silly idea that he was ashamed of them.

When noises on the front porch roused him from his slumber, Charles sighed. Another one, then.  
>He stretched creaking limbs and rose to investigate.<p>

What he saw surprised him.

Not a kitten, then. Well, not just a kitten. A cat- a long, thin, gingery tomcat, all sharp angles and lithe grace- that had something in it's mouth, a small scrap of fur that couldn't have been more than 6 weeks, freshly weaned.

_Who are you_? Charles said, hackles rising. _What are you doing in my house?_

The tomcat looked amused. _Your house, is it? Not the humans?_

_It may as well be mine._

_Of course. _A smile.

_I've brought you something.  
>I can see that. Why, pray tell, don't you keep- her?<em>

_I can't care for her._

_She is yours, though? Your kitten?_

_Please. Her mother died, she has no where else to go._

_Except with you._

_She can't. My life is too dangerous for a child.  
><em>  
>Charles flicked his tale agitatedly.<p>

_What, then, are you doing that is so important that you cannot be bothered to care for your own flesh and blood?  
><em>  
>His fur puffed in fury.<p>

_How dare you- you spoiled little _pet_, you have no _idea _of what you speak! I love her, but I can't. Please. Charles. You care for kittens without homes. She no longer has one._

_I don't even know your name._

_Erik. My name is Erik._

_And I repeat, why not take her with you?_

_I have a mission, Charles. I wouldn't expect you to understand._

_Tell me._

Erik sighed, flicked his tail.

_I wasn't always alone, Charles. I had a family once._

_You're not alone._

_That's kind of you to say, but I know the truth. I had one, once, but I lost it at the hands of the human named Sebastian Shaw.  
>I am going to find him, and I am going to make him pay.<em>

_How? _Charles asked, appalled and enthralled in equal measure.

_I am going to find him, _Erik repeated, _And I am going to bite him on the nose._


	2. Chapter 2

That was the first time Erik showed up.  
>It was by no means the last.<p>

About a week later, Charles was woken up at 3:30, the frantic _skritchskritch_ on the window having grown too loud to ignore.

Erik was wet, and listing slightly to one side, and held a large, reddish kitten by its scruff.

Charles rolled his eyes, before noticing the patches of fur that were missing from his side.  
><em>Erik, my friend, <em>he pursed his lips, tail twitching. _What happened?_

Erik glanced at him sardonically. The kitten in his mouth twitched and scratched, trying to get loose.  
>Finally, he dropped it in a wet <em>whuff<em> of fur.  
>The kitten attempted to dart away, but Erik held it in place easily with a paw to the neck.<p>

_Got kicked_ Erik said gruffly. _One of Shaw's men._  
>The red kitten continued to struggle. <em>Really? Well, now we know they're evil.<em>

_What?_ Charles asked.

_Kicking the cat. Oldest trope in the book. Makes sure the readers know that these are some serious bad guys, here._

Erik hissed. He glanced at Charles.

_Sorry, friend,_ Erik said, _But I think you're on your own here._  
>He let him up, and began to turn.<p>

The kitten pounced on Charles, needle-sharp teeth gnashing at his throat.

_I AM A NINJA!_ he growled. Then he paused. _Say, do you have any bananas?_

Erik chuckled softly as he walked away, tail held high.

_By the way, Charles- you're looking good._

_Um, thank you?_ Charles called back. _Kinda busy, here_  
>With a great kick, he forced the kitten off his throat and into the opposite wall.<br>He was quite proud that he resisted asking _'Will I see you again?'_

Erik seemed to have heard him, anyway. Smug bastard.

_Oh, don't worry, _he said, _I'll be around._


	3. Chapter 3

The next one wasn't even a kitten.

It was a weasel.

A large, scruffy, dirty weasel.

Charles woke to the sound of scratching on the doorsteps. This was becoming an all-too frequent occurrence.

He cautiously stuck his head out the rip in the screen door. _Hello?_

The weasel got up from it's spot on the stairs. Beside it was a small, bedraggled lump of fur that had apparently been carried in the mouth of the weasel, if that was even possible. Don't they suck blood, or something?

_You're Chuck, right? Erik told me about you._

_Charles_ Charles said coldly. _Charles Francis Xavier_. He tried to leave out his middle names- they were embarrassing, even for a kitten.

_Right, Chuck. Erik sent me. Said you ran a home for wayward kittens, or something?_ The weasel scratched itself absentmindedly.

_No I don't!_ Charles protested. _This is just my home!_

The weasel looked pointedly behind Charles, where a red kitten was 'stealthily' attempting to stalk Charles.  
>Without looking back, he shot out a paw and kicked him in the head.<p>

The weasel then looked to Charles' right, where a large blue kitten and a smaller blue kitten were playfully... er... 'wrestling', yes that's it, they must be wrestling. Whew.

_I suppose I can see how one might arrive at that... erroneous... conclusion,_ Charles said at last, _But what are you doing here? You're a weasel, as far as I can tell._

The weasel snorted. _Ain't here for me, bub, though if you could see your way clear to providing some grub, I wouldn't say no. This one's Erik's. She needs a home._

They always do.

_What fresh hell?_ Charles spat. _Isn't that man supposed to be on a mad and tragic quest for vengeance? How does he even have time to __**produce**__this many kittens?_

_Oh, they're not always his,_ the weasel pointed out. _I mean, this one is, and the green one, and that one you caught him leaving- but the rest are just kittens he comes across, far as I can tell._

_There are other places for them to go! Orphanages, or- or shelters, or something!_

The weasel shrugged. Inasmuch as a weasel is capable of shrugging. _You're asking the wrong guy, Chuck. Got any food?_

_In the front hall,_ Charles said wearily. He was getting a migraine.


	4. Chapter 4

It had been _weeks_ since anyone had seen hide or tail of Erik.

Charles was getting worried.

Normally, this was his favourite time of year- the normally-empty estate came to life, buzzing with people and light, the entire house smelling of roasted meats and baked desserts, many of which would then find it's way into Charles' mouth.

Not that he stole. He simply... found a new purpose for those items that the humans were no longer using.

After all, if _he_ intended to claim ownership of a piece of meat, he would hardly set it down on a flimsy, greasy bit of paper and levae it on the table, now would he?

It was clearly meant as trash, which meant his , er, 'prizes', were _perfectly ethical_, thank you very much.

In years past, his greatest concern at Christmas had been The Children. He never understood how, for 99 percent of the year, the massive estate was practically empty save for Mrs Marko and the servants, and then suddenly seemed to explode with children. Was she keeping them in the closets?

Perhaps she just had too many 'friends' like Erik, prepared to take utter advantage of her good nature and naturally kind heart. Charles sniffed disapprovingly.

He stretched, and began to prowl the perimeter of the wide, dark space that was their home, beneath one of the numerous carved tables found in the East Wing. It was warm, and dark, and quiet; more importantly, it was almost never used.

Originally, when it had been just Raven and he, they had stayed in Charles' rooms- but now they numbered nearly 20, and that _would_ have been a touch conspicuous.

He did a head count. Jean, Bobby, John, Kitty, and Scott were sleeping, as all reasonable kittens should be at this hour of the afternoon. Raven and Hank were... wrestling. My, they did enjoy wrestling, didn't they? Charles has never seen the attraction, himself.

Pietro was attempting to scale the curtains, and had been for the last half an hour. He would dart at them, jump, and climb as fast as he could- only for the fabric to give way beneath his scrambling claws.

At Charles' count, this is the sixteenth time he has landed in a puff of white fur on the oriental rug.

Kittens these days, honestly. They had no _respect_ for other people's property.

Rogue sat in the corner looking sad. She was very good at that.

Wanda was in the other corner with Lorna, the two swaying to an imaginary chant and frantically waving their paws in a synchronised motion. Charles... didn't want to know, really.

Warren was attempting to fly. Again.

Charles didn't know who had told him about flying squirrels (though he suspects Hank), but Charles intends to personally ensure that they never do so again. He winces as another priceless china ornament shatters on the ground.

Jubilee was- no, Charles, look away, look away, that is _not_ a strand of Christmas lights in her mouth, that is a ... lollipop. Yes, a lollipop. One of the children must have dropped it.

David was chasing imaginary butterflies. At least that was slightly less destructive than his actions yesterday, which had involved hunting imaginary... supervillains?

_You killed my father!_ he had squealed, claws and teeth bared. _You must pay for your sins!_

And with that, he had lunged at the air, running into Charles mid-lunge and nearly taking his eye out.  
>Charles winced. There were still a few flecks of blood on his otherwise pristine fur from that... event.<p>

_Well, it could have been worse, he supposes. The world could have descended into an Apocalypse the likes of which it had never seen before._

_Wade was stalking something. Which was not, in itself, unusual. Of course, in this case it was a _banana_, but, again, that was not so out of the range of normal behaviour, for him._

Charles sighed. The kittens were all safe and accounted for, yes, but... where was Erik? It hurt Charles to the depths of his heart to think of someone being alone for Christmas, with naught but his mad quest for revenge to keep him company. His family was all with Charles, after all.

Alone at Christmas. It just wasn't _right_.

_Oh, I wouldn't worry,_ Wade said, having apparently stalked the banana into submission, _He's Jewish._

_I beg your pardon?_ Charles sniffed.

_Erik. The revenge obsessed absentee father tragic hero you're mooning over? He's Jewish._

_He's a _cat_,_ Charles pointed out. _How does that even work?_

_I'd say ask the author, but she has no idea either. The point is, it's very important. If you like this guy, you need to respect such a fundamental part of his Tragic Back Story?_

_His tragedy is being Jewish? Surely that's a bit prejudiced of you._

_No, it's.. You know what, just.. read the comic. It's all explained. Or watch the films._

Charles sighed. Talking to Wade occasionally felt like talking to a piece of sentient tuna fish.

_I do... miss him. I worry about him._

_Don't worry, I'm sure you'll be seeing him very soon- after all, this is a story about kittens at Christmas time- it's hardly going to end in tragedy._

Charles opens his mouth to reply, but is interrupted by the sounds of paws on the front stoop.

Running as fast as his paws could carry him, he went to investigate. What he saw shouldn't have surprised him, but it did.

_Erik?_ he began to call as he raced around the corner. _Erik, is that you-  
><em>  
>He stopped, speechless at the sight before him.<p>

Erik was there, looking a good deal thinner and more ragged than when he had last seen him, but with a glint of satisfaction in his eyes.

He was _surrounded_ by kittens of all shapes, sizes, and colours.

Charles gaped.

_Well, I could hardly leave them, could I?_ Erik said with a smile. _They call themselves the Brotherhood. I said they could come home with me._

__Erik! You- Wait. Did you just say home?

Erik began to purr. _I won, Charles. My quest is over._

You bit Shaw on the nose?

Erik's eyes gleamed. _Yes, and he needed two stitches._ His face turned soft, wistful. _Will you still have me, with such blood on my paws?_

_Oh, Erik, _Charles said, _You are always welcome here, my friend. You and these kittens._

_Erik's purr rumbled louder, like the engine of a motor car. Charles joined him._

__You're here for good, then? No more mad quests for vengeance?

Erik nodded, and rubbed up against Charles, infusing him with his musky, outdoorsy scent.

_Merry Christmas, Charles._

_Merry Christmas, Erik,_ Charles replied, his smile so wide his whiskers were tickling his lips.

_I'm Jewish,_ Erik pointed out.

_You're a _cat_. How does that even work?_

Erik shrugged.

_Happy Hanukkah, then?_ Charles suggested.

He turned to the kittens.

_Welcome, everyone. My name is Charles Xavier, and this is a home for kittens who haven't one. You will share this home with many others like you. I expect you to respect them and yourselves, and to avoid the humans at all costs. Do you understand?_

There was murmur of affirmative meows.

_Good. Welcome home, everyone, and happy holidays._

He smiled, and led them through the house, head held high, with Erik at his side.

This was his favourite time of year, after all.


End file.
